


every prophet has a sister (every witch is a priestess)

by kwritten



Series: Femlash February 2016 [3]
Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: Biblical References, F/F, Literary References & Allusions, Post-Canon, everyone hates dan humphrey, gossip girl fallout, jenny is better than you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 18:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5938489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kwritten/pseuds/kwritten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for the fem-feb prompt: blair/jenny or blair/vanessa - convent vs coven / the difference between rivals and god</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Jenny tapped a pen against her lips and then smiled, “Even Cain had a <b>sister</b>.” It feels blasphemous. </i><br/><i>“What does that prove?” Dan shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, tugging at the knot in his overpriced tie. </i><br/><i>They don’t look up at him. They never say, <b>remember when you were the devil under our beds?</b>.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	every prophet has a sister (every witch is a priestess)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clytemnestras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clytemnestras/gifts).



“Even Cain had a brother.”

Vanessa cocked her head to one side, “Isn’t that the point, though?”

That’s what all the stories say, brother versus brother, collateral damage to prove what the other is. One good, one bad, a division between pure intent and harmful neglect, love and hate, pure and evil.

Jenny tapped a pen against her lips and then smiled, “Even Cain had a _sister_.”

That changes everything.  
It feels poetic.  
It feels wild. 

It feels blasphemous. 

“What does that prove?” Dan shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, tugging at the knot in his overpriced tie. 

They don’t look up at him. They never say, _remember when you were the devil under our beds?_. They never smile and tease him, never drag their eyes up the length of him with judgement that he knows he deserve. They never say, _remember when you were the brother, the knight, the prince charming?_

 

 

This conversation may be a fragmented figment of his own imagination. So much of their lives were written by him one way or another. They stopped teasing out the fact from fiction long ago, it no longer seemed relevant. 

Either he was a god or he was a prophet, whispering hints of their divine nature into the ears of any who would listen. They stopped listening. (Wouldn’t you?)

 

 

In this version, they are shadows.  
In this version, they are cruel.  
In this version, he is at their whim. 

“I am your witch,” he laughs.

Blair sneers at him, but doesn’t respond. It’s not worth her time. She is a witch. She is a demon. She is a goddess. She is beyond his comprehension. 

She likes being reminded of that, of how large she is in his eyes, in his mind, with his pen. Simple words scrawled on a white page as if he can capture her. 

“And you are my demon mistress,” he whispers, as if the words could save him. 

They don’t look up at him. They never say, _we have been working at our cauldron long before you took notice of our actions._ They don’t listen to his stories anymore. They never say, _you think a witch is a weak thing, but after everything we are the ones still standing, while you are on your knees._

They don’t remind him, _witches only serve demons in the fairy tales created to help you sleep at night. Can we show you our goddess, can you believe our power? We are as divine as you are mundane. Sleep softly, little prince, you’ve never been charming._

He may think himself a prophet, but what is a man of words to a priestess and her goddess? 

 

 

“For what it’s worth, you’re my queen.”

No one will see this moment, talk of this moment, speak of this moment. 

Jenny stepped forward and pressed a kiss to her queen’s lips. It is a plea, it is a benediction. 

It is forgiveness. 

 

 

“Even Cain had a sister,” she smirked. 

She doesn’t say, _and she was more cruel, she was more dangerous, she was the most wild version of him._ She doesn’t need to remind them, _he killed with a tear in his eye, but she bit through flesh with a smile tugging at her lips._

These aren’t words that need to be spoken between rivals. 

They are women, this story was written into their bones in the moment of their birth. 

“Aren’t we a little old to be playing these games?” Blair lifted an eyebrow. 

“Oh, didn’t you get the memo?” Vanessa draped her arm over Jenny’s shoulders, appearing out of the shadows like a ghost, “The war has only just begun.”

They don’t say, _do you remember us? do you remember the press of our skin against yours? do you remember the taste of us?_

They don’t need to. 

They are tattooed on her skin as surely as she is a part of theirs. 

A witch.  
A queen.  
A god. 

 

 

“What’s a little rivalry between old friends?” Jenny laughed softly. There is dark makeup around her eyes and her hair is longer than he has ever seen it. He thinks of his sweet sister, with her curled hair around her shoulders and her bright blue eyes. 

“I don’t want to see you get hurt,” and his words were more hollow than they have ever been. 

“I can take care of myself,” she said in the same moment that Vanessa piped up, “I can take care of her.”

They don’t say, _we’re finally playing our way._ They don’t remind him that he used to think that this was fun. They don’t look him in the eye and make him apologize. Apologize for what? All he did was get in the way and delay the inevitable. 

 

 

“For what it’s worth,” she skims her teeth against Blair’s jawline softly, “you were never my queen.”

“A poor court I’d have, with a disaster like you bowing before me,” Blair knelt down and smirked at Vanessa’s trembling knees. 

She knows the power of her lips and her tongue and her fingers.  
She is a queen. 

“Fuck you,” Vanessa spits out. 

Funny how you can worship at the altar of the thing that you hate. 

She doesn’t say, _isn’t that what you’re doing here?_ She doesn’t smile or laugh or berate. She dips her head down and gives good, because a queen only has so much time in a day. There’s no time for explanations or questions or threats, she is a moving piece on a board of her own making. 

 

 

Jenny tapped her fingers against her thigh and smirked across the breakfast table at her disheveled brother and perky sister-in-law, “Even Cain had a sister.”

“He probably married her,” Serena said, wrinkling her nose and then laughing in a way that suggests that she doesn’t know what it means to marry an Icarus. 

Jenny’s canine’s flash at her brother, “Wonder what it must have been like, to be the sister of the first murderer.”

 

 

“Does it feel good to be queen?” Vanessa asked, when they were young and she still longed only for a crown. 

“I guess so.”

_Heavy is the head that wears the crown and all that bullshit._

“Do you think this war with Blair will ever be over?” Vanessa is tangled up in her bed, right between her thighs, right where she shouldn’t be. 

Jenny stroked her hair and looked out the window at the dim glow of streetlights, “It hasn’t even started.”

How strange to know something so important at such a young age. 

 

 

“How does it feel to be _gossip girl_ ’s sister?” Blair asked her in the aftermath, a shiny diamond sparkling on her finger and a new title attached to her name like an anchor. 

Jenny snorted. 

Everyone was always asking the wrong questions about the wrong game, as if anything her brother did mattered.

“I’ll let you know,” she said after a long silence. Under the bar, their ankles grazed against each other, in the dim pub far from any respectable establishment, it was easy to pretend to be two mortals, to pretend to be flesh and bone. 

The stories say: brother against brother. They never tell you what that does to the women clinging to the margins of every page. Do they become soft? Or do they fashion themselves of something stronger, so that no ~~brother~~ one can tear them down?

 

 

In this version, they are stronger.  
In this version, they are darker.  
In this version, he won’t see them coming. 

In this version, she is the author. 

 

 

Every prophet has a sister, a kind girl that waits in the rushes and watches the river wash him towards a destiny that she must fight her way to, tromping through the mud and the shit to follow. While he is carried safe and sound the soles of her feet are sliced through, her dress is torn from her shoulders, her hair tangles in the thrushes, creatures lie in wait to gobble her up. And yet, they arrive at the foot of the queen all the same. Him safe and sound, her turned from kindness into something harder and tougher. 

What is a queen to a prophet?  
What is a priestess to a queen? 

What is a sister to a prophet?

 

A god. 

 

 

“Why are you lying to her?” Jenny could hear Blair’s exasperation through the tinny sound on her phone and smiled to herself. 

“Which lie offends you today,” she inspected her manicure, her tone even and steady. 

“About _us_ ,” the inflection in her tone suggested something that was _something_. 

Jenny closed her eyes and leaned her head back, sighing at the feel of the sun on her face. The air was crisp around her, a slight wind blew her hair over one shoulder. It felt a bit like heaven, New York in autumn with a clear sky and a bright sun. 

“Jenny?”

“I’m sorry, what did you want?”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?”

Jenny grinned, and it was a shame no one was around to see it, it was beautiful and wild and feral. 

“Mine.”

 

 

 

“What is this even about, do you know?” he’s angry with her and that makes her smile even more. 

As if he has ever understood her anger. 

“Don’t you?”

She doesn’t say, _you stole my war from me, my crown, my heart, my safety._ She doesn’t look him up and down and expose all the weaknesses he hid through vicious words. She doesn’t point to the books on his shelf with his name on the spine, her blood spilled to fill his pages. She doesn’t remind him, _you got to play the villain and the hero with the same strike of your pen and it is my turn._

“This isn’t high school, Jenny. Whatever you’re planning and scheming … You’re acting stupid.”

She thinks of Cain and Abel in the field, under a bright sun, blood flowing like a river all around, and a girl kneeling between them in the dirt, her hands stained forever by the heart of both. She wonders what she would have been made into if she had had two brothers, strong and proud and at war, instead of just the singular foolish one standing in front of her. 

She doesn’t say, _I’m just finishing what you started._ She doesn’t look into his eyes and find the pleasure lurking there, the pride, the envy. She doesn’t point out that his anger is more jealousy than anything else. She doesn’t remind him, _this is what they wanted and I’m going to win because I can give them something you couldn’t._

So he got his princess, rode away into the sunset, told himself _happily ever after_ and wrote pretty stories about it all. 

So she went into his history and found hearts to eat.

They could have made her queen, once. They will make her a god, now. 

 

 

“You don’t love me,” Vanessa says to her. It’s armor. She says it like a curse. Like she _should_ be loved and Jenny is the one breaking the rules. 

It doesn’t stop her from licking at Jenny’s skin hungrily, as if her moans could feed them both. 

 

“I don’t love you,” Blair says to her. It’s a weapon. She says it like a whip. Like it should hurt and Jenny is the one breaking the rules by not caring. 

It doesn’t stop her from panting beneath Jenny’s fingers, as if skin could cure a lifetime of thirst. 

 

They were the ones that taught her to lie.  
It’s not her fault that she does it better than them after all of this time. 

 

Heavy is the crown and all that bullshit. 

Well, she’s not seeking a crown anymore. 

(She thinks she never was.) 

 

 

 

“What do you think you are going to win at the end of all of this?” Blair asked pensively, swishing her arm through the warm water of the tub, causing the suds and bubbles to glint in the candlelight. 

Jenny brought her glass to her lips and shrugged, “What makes you think I haven’t won already?”

She didn’t say, _what makes you think there’s anything left to win?_

 

 

Leave that lesson for another story.  
She can’t write them all. 

 

 

There once was a boy that loved a girl.  
A witch loved him. (He didn’t know that witches were priestesses, powerful and deadly.)  
A princess loved him. (He didn’t realize princesses always become queens.)  
A sister loved him. (He couldn’t know that his words would make her a god.)

There once was a boy that thought himself a prophet, and found himself a girl to love. 

Every prophet has a sister. 

Someone really should have warned him.


End file.
